Burn It Black
by MVTK42
Summary: Three months after the revelation of Charon Industries' involvement in the civil war on Chorus, the newly allied Federal and New Republic armies scramble to solidify Armonia's defenses with the help of the Blood Gulch crew. The space pirates have set up an orbital blockade, refusing to allow anyone to enter or leave the planet... except for a single Sangheili transport.
1. Prologue

He was too angry to sleep.

The metal floor was cold against the bare soles of his feet as Felix padded into the training room. He bound his hair in a tail at the back of his head, his fingers rasping against the stubbled undercut. As he crossed the painted ring denoting the edge of the hologram emitter he snapped, "Start efficiency training."

"You are not wearing your armor. Without proper protective gear the risk of injury - "

Felix bared his teeth. "FILSS, did I fucking stutter? Start the goddamn program," he said.

Green hologramatic circles flared to life in two concentric rings, one atop the other as they spun in opposite directions. He bounced on the balls of his feet and shook out his arms in a quick warm up, dropped into a ready stance, then hurled himself into the exercise.

His hands and feet flew through a familiar pattern, the targets beeping and turning red as his hits landed. Within twenty seconds both rings were fully crimson.

"You show a 3.3% decrease in efficiency since your last attempt," FILSS reported.

Felix ground his teeth. "Again," he said.

Once more he was surrounded by green targets, though not for long.

"You show a 0.3% increase in efficiency."

"Again."

"You show a 0.7% increase in efficiency."

"Again."

"You show a 1.8% increase in efficiency."

"_Again_."

Over and over he blazed through the exercise, his mind wandering as he tried to work himself into exhaustion. It had been weeks since he'd had a decent night's rest, and this shit was getting old. But no matter what he did sleep would never come without a fight. Drugs, sex, and exercise were his only options and they varied in their effectiveness.

He would toss and turn for hours, trying to stifle the thoughts running through his head. He couldn't stop reliving that humiliating scene on Chorus; years of hard work and manipulation ruined because of a fucking simulation soldier with a fucking camera.

His mood darkened at the memory. The oldest trick in the book and he'd run right into it; been outsmarted by a goddamn moron. He could easily imagine Tucker laughing up his victory right now, gloating that he'd gotten one over on the big bad mercenary. The thought burned within him and nothing he did could ease the searing hate festering in his gut.

So he was too angry to sleep.

Felix snarled a curse as he overextended, his fist passing too far through the last target.

"You show a 0.8% decrease in efficiency."

This wasn't working. He was too aggravated for control exercises and the failures were making it worse. "New program," he said, "Offensive melee training."

The circles vanished, replaced by a hardlight hologram of a soldier in standard issue olive green MJOLNIR armor, fists raised in a defensive pose.

Felix paused, considering. "Change the color."

"What would you prefer?"

"Aqua." The word was a venomous hiss that slid between his teeth.

The hologram wavered and shifted hue. The corner of Felix's mouth pulled back in a sneer. "Begin," he growled and threw himself forward.

The solid resistance felt good as Felix landed hit after hit, attacking the midsection until the hologram lowered its arms. Felix changed targets instantly, sinking his fist into the hologram's throat where the only protection was the gel-layer bodysuit.

"Incapacitating hit," FILSS announced as the hologram clutched its neck and staggered back, unfortunately without the choked gagging that usually accompanied such a strike.

This was more satisfying than circles, Felix decided. "Again," he said.

The hologram instantly recovered. Felix launched another series of attacks, forcing the hologram to move to avoid being flanked. Felix juked a punch at the hologram's chest, and when it twisted for a textbook slip he slammed his foot into the side of its knee, right in the gap between the greave and cuisse.

"Crippling hit."

The hologram collapsed without a noise as its knee buckled, but Felix grinned as he imagined the wet pop and agonized scream - he had plenty of memories to pull the sounds from. Vicious pleasure slithered through him and spread a warm glow in his chest.

Felix closed his eyes and drew a long breath through his nose, savoring the sensation. He flexed his hand and remembered the wash of hot blood pouring over it as he buried his knife to the hilt in Tucker's side. He remembered that sweet, barely audible gasp as he twisted the blade, the ragged breaths as Tucker crouched on the ground trying to staunch the wound with his hand -

\- the smug laughter as Tucker revealed the AI working the helmet cam -

Felix snarled, his good mood shattered as shame curdled his joy. He should have _gutted_ the little bastard! Jerked the knife through the gap between breastplate and codpiece, watched as blood and guts and shit bulged out and been satisfied that even though the mission had failed he'd have devastated an entire planet by turning their hero into a fucking martyr right in front of their eyes!

He whirled, storming to the equipment locker and ripping the doors open. He snatched a holoknife from its cradle and rounded on the hologram, still down on one knee.

"Reset, manual stop only," he hissed as he stalked forward, the transparent blade gleaming to life as he returned to the ring. The hologram rose to its feet just in time to defend itself against a furious assault. Over and over Felix slashed the blade at the weak points in the armor, losing himself in his anger.

Throat, knee, armpit, thigh.

"Killing hit. Crippling hit. Killing hit. Crippling hit."

He hurled himself bodily at the hologram, driving the blade into its side.

"Incapacitating hit."

Rage boiled away his sanity. Felix roared as he stabbed again and again, driving the hologram to the ground. He threw himself on top to straddle it without ever pausing.

"Incapacitating hit. Incapacitating hit. Incapacitat - "

He slung the knife away, pounding his fist into the visor of the helmet as he howled curses. He wanted it to be the visor of Tucker's helmet. He wanted to shatter it, to push his fist through it and into the skull behind it as that bastard shrieked and kicked and begged and bled -

All it took was the angle of his hand to be just a little bit wrong. White hot pain lanced up his arm before the snap of bone ever reached his ears. He lurched away from the hologram, cradling his broken hand to his chest as he screamed between clenched teeth. He sank to his knees and curled his body around his injury as if he could physically shield it from the pain.

"End program."

Felix's head snapped up to see Locus entering the room as the hologram faded away. He scowled; this was _not_ what he needed right now.

Locus stopped just out of reach, his face unreadable as he stared down at Felix.

"You lost focus," he said. He wasn't talking about the training session.

Felix's raw temper flared. "_FUCK! __**YOU!**_" he bellowed.

Locus was unfazed, continuing as if Felix hadn't spoken. "You put yourself before the mission. You let yourself get manipulated, and now our operation is on the brink of failure. You should be removed from fieldwork until you've proven yourself to be capable of keeping your ego under control," he said.

If his hand wasn't broken Felix would have slammed it into Locus' nose. He shoved the pain to the back of his mind as he staggered to his feet and planted himself right in front of the taller man. "Fuck. You," he said again, grinding his teeth as his arm began to throb. He used his good hand to jab a finger into Locus' chest. "I _will_ kill that little shitsack of a soldier. I don't give a fuck what I have to do to do it. I'll fucking bail on this stupid operation if I have to. I'll crawl through hell and back on my fucking knees to see him burn. I want to see his entire fucking world turned to goddamn ash around him before I slit his throat. And not you, or Control, or fucking _anyone else_ is going to stop me."

"Good," Locus said. He stepped back and held up a data pad. "We have our orders."

Felix glared suspiciously at his partner and snatched the datapad away. Thumbing it to life, he scanned the contents quickly, stopping as he got to a certain part.

"Are you fucking serious?!" he snarled, lifting his head to glare.

"Keep reading," Locus said. Grumbling under his breath, Felix did as he was told.

Anger vanished as he did, replaced first by surprise and then with sadistic glee. A small titter bubbled up from his chest. When he didn't stop it, it morphed into a chuckle that grew and grew until he had his head thrown back, howling with laughter.

Eventually his mirth subsided, dulled by time and the hot pain in his hand. He allowed a few last, tired giggles to escape as he caught his breath. "Oh, buddy, don't you worry," he said, a feral grin splitting his face as he offered the datapad back, "I can _definitely_ be trusted with this."

Locus allowed a barely perceptible smile in answer. "I thought you would approve," he said, collecting the datapad. He turned and began walking out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, "Head to the infirmary then get some rest. You leave in the morning."

Later that night Felix lay in his bed, smiling as he closed his eyes. It may have just been the painkillers, but that night he slept soundly for the first time since Chorus.

* * *

_**Red vs Blue is property of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC. Halo is property of Microsoft, Bungie, and 343 Industries._

_Much love to my beta, Aryashi._**


	2. Murphy's Law

_Several months later..._

"You know, Simmons, I could get used to this," Grif said, kicking his feet up on the desk as he settled his bulk more comfortably in his chair. The beleaguered furniture gave an alarming creak as it tilted back to accommodate his new posture.

Simmons looked up from the other side of the desk. "You could get used to being under siege?" he asked with a hefty amount of incredulous derision.

"Fuck yeah. I mean, I always assumed it'd be just as awful as everything else in the army," Grif said, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "But we've been under siege for three months now, and nobody's attacked us, we've got plenty of food, minions at our beck and call, and we haven't had to do shit. This is great!"

"_You_ haven't done shit," Simmons corrected, "Everyone _else_ has been trying to find a way to break through the orbital blockade the space pirates set up."

"Why bother?" Grif scoffed. "It's not like these people were interested in interstellar travel anyway, and where the fuck do _we_ have to go?"

"Do you want to be stuck here the rest of your life?" Simmons asked.

"Are you kidding? That'd be awesome! Getting stranded here is the best thing that's ever happened to us," Grif said. "We've got an entire planet to ourselves as long as these guys don't start fighting each other again. That's not likely because we already stopped them from doing that, and people love us so they'll listen to us when we tell them to knock it off if they start fucking around again. We can't go back to the military and the military can't get here to take us. As far as I'm concerned they can keep that blockade up forever."

"But we _are_ still in the military. We're on watch right now!" Simmons said.

"No, we're the watch _captains_. We have our own office! We're the guys the people who are actually _on_ watch report to. And you wanna know what they're gonna say? 'All clear, nothing to report.' Same as yesterday, same as last week, same as last month," Grif said. He gave a happy sigh, wriggling deeper into his chair. "This is the best war ever."

"We're crammed in a repurposed supply closet because all the _actual_ offices were converted into apartments to try and contain all the soldiers they brought in," Simmons said, gesturing to their dank surroundings.

"Have you ever had your own office before, Simmons? Even a repurposed supply closet office?" Grif challenged.

There was a beat of silence as Simmons thought. "... No," he finally admitted in a sullen voice. He jabbed a finger a Grif. "But you have to admit having to share quarters sucks."

"The more soldiers there are, the more bodies are between me and oncoming bullets. Bring 'em on," Grif said.

"You're only saying that because you don't have to share a room with _you_," Simmons said in a scathing voice. "I got one of your socks stuck to my boot once and they almost put me in quarantine because they registered a biohazard on my armor."

"So, same as Blood Gulch, except here you can order some jackass to clean our room. I just pick someone I hate and have them do it."

That... was a very good point. Simmons frowned, setting his pencil down on his sudoku puzzle and trying to think of bigger flaws. Something _had_ to be wrong with it; sieges were supposed to be bad things. But aside from not letting anything enter or leave the planet, the pirates were content to leave them alone for now, and with the Federal and New Republic armies pooling their resources no one was going without food or shelter (however cramped). The most exciting thing to happen since confronting the Chairman were the scattered fistfights that occasionally broke out between the former enemy soldiers. The Blood Gulch crew's involvement in the civil war had come with promotions, something Simmons had always dreamed about. He had subordinates now, some of whom even respected him.

"Aren't you curious why the pirates haven't been attacking?" he asked.

"God damn it, Simmons, don't fucking start," Grif snapped, sitting up slightly to glare at him.

He leaned away, taken aback by the sudden heat in the fat man's voice. "Start what?" he asked.

"Every goddamn time someone starts asking questions about what the enemy's doing or not doing, they start doing something. Then what starts off as a seemingly simple situation gets _really_ fucking complicated, and suddenly people are shooting at us and there's some kind of mysterious conspiracy that we never really fully understand because it's usually centered on the fucking Blue Team and we miss half the shit they do but we still have to help them break into some heavily guarded and _really fucking dangerous_ place to get something to stop the bad guy, all because we spat in destiny's eye by not just accepting that sometimes shit isn't blowing up in our faces. So _no_, Simmons, I'm _not_ fucking curious why the enemy hasn't attacked," Grif said. He started to lean back then straightened again, pointing a threatening finger. "And I swear to God if something happens because you questioned fate I will shoot you in the fucking mouth."

"_Me?!_" Simmons protested, "If anything happens, it'll be because _you_ provoked irony by saying how nice everything was!"

"Oh, fuck, right. Okay, shut up about it," Grif said, his chair protesting with a squeal as he leaned back in a show of forced casualness.

Simmons made a rude noise. "Well, it's too late now," he said with a smug grin, "You already brought it up. Someone's gonna come running through that door with an emergency any second."

"Maybe they _won't_ if you _shut the fuck up_ about it," Grif growled.

"No, because at this point even if I stop talking about it, just enough time will pass for you to start to relax thinking nothing's gonna happen, then something's gonna happen," Simmons said. He started collecting his things off the desk and got a pen ready for the log book.

"Well, then, fuck it, keep talking about it — if we don't stop I can't relax, right?"

"Nope. Then it would just happen as we're talking about it for maximum Murphionic effect."

Grif tilted his head. "'Murphionic?'" he parroted.

"As in 'Murphy's Law.' You know, 'anything that can go wrong, will?' 'If everything seems to be going well you've overlooked something?' Patron saint of something fucking up? And you went ahead and invoked him," Simmons said, leaning back in his own chair and lacing his fingers together over his stomach.

No sooner had he finished speaking then the sounds of a scuffle filtered through the thin walls. Simmons tilted his head to hear better; if it sounded like real trouble he might actually have to get up to investigate.

It was expected that bad blood would still exist between the former Federal and New Republic soldiers. Armonia was filled to bursting as they fortified their position in anticipation of Charon's attack, and the cramped quarters rubbed already-frayed nerves raw. Old enmities didn't vanish overnight, especially in a civil war as bitter as this one had been. Most understood that they had been played by Charon but it was difficult to ignore that there had been deaths.

So while the altercations were not officially sanctioned, it was almost impossible for those in command to punish every infraction unless they wanted to try and throw the entire army in the brig. So officers were subtly encouraged to turn a blind eye to minor incidents as long as they didn't become overly violent or interfere with the war, and let the soldiers work it out among themselves. They didn't have the time or resources to do anything else.

There was a thump and a muted curse from the hallway, then hurried footsteps approaching the office.

The door burst open to admit a female in New Republic armor with maroon accents. "Sschirss!" Jensen cried as she stumbled into the room. Once she caught her balance she snapped into a salute. "Sschirss, Generalssch Kimball and Doyle requesscht your presschenssche in the war room immediately for an important sschtaff meeting!" she cried, her lisp rendering her almost indecipherable in her excitement.

"Told you," Simmons said, dutifully jotting it down in the log as he stood and returned the salute.

"Fuck Murphy, and fuck you," Grif snapped back. He shoved away from the desk with an angry kick, grumbling under his breath as he laboriously rose to his feet, shoving his helmet on his head. Simmons grinned as he grabbed his own helmet.

They all turned as a soldier in Federal armor charged into the room, throwing himself to attention next to Jensen. "Sirs! Generals Doyle and Kimball — " he started.

"I already told them, ballsschack," Jensen jeered.

The other soldier didn't relax from his salute. "I was repeating it in case they actually wanted to understand what was being 'sschaid,'" he drawled. Simmons scowled; _somebody_ had just volunteered for "Grif Room Cleaning" duty.

"You're an assschhole."

"You tripped me in the hall so you could get here first, bitch."

Simmons felt a swell of pride; Jensen was ambitious and underhanded, two traits he felt were critically undervalued in the military today.

"Well, I can see the brilliant plan to mingle Fed and New squads together is working great. You can really feel the healing," Grif said.

"It's a theoretical solution," Simmons said, "I mean we fought the Blues for years and look at us now."

"They've met Sarge, right?"

Simmons wasn't touching that one. He turned to Jensen, opened his mouth, and squeaked when his throat seize shut and panic gripped him. He coughed and tried again, this time successfully managing vocalization. "Uh, thank you, lieutenant. Message received? Thank you," he said, wincing every time his voice warbled. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back down from the octave it was climbing. "For the message. That we received. You are... dismissed?"

"Thank you, sschir!" Jensen said.

"Actually, sir, we're to man your post while you're with the generals," the Federal soldier said with an undue amount of smugness.

Jensen wilted slightly. "Oh. Yeah, right," she said, embarrassment clear in her voice.

Protective anger burned in Simmons' stomach. He tried his best to loom over the Fed, who was a head taller than him. People were rarely intimidated by a short, skinny man with ginger curls and freckles, but they were definitely discomfited by cyborg implants. "Nobody likes a smartass," he growled.

The Fed twitched, clearly not expecting Simmons' hostility. "Uh, but sir, I was just — "

"Is that backtalk?"

"No, sir, but I — "

"'No?' Now you're disagreeing with a superior officer?"

"I was just relaying our orders — "

"_More_ backtalk? You're not going to get far in this army with that kind of attitude, soldier!" Simmons said.

The Fed started to sigh but caught it. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice sounding as if it had escaped from between clenched teeth.

Simmons bobbed his head in a satisfied nod, sniffing disdainfully. He stepped back, slapped on his helmet, and turned to Jensen. "Carry on," he said.

"Yessch, sschir!" she chirped, snapping another salute.

Simmons nodded again, hesitated as he tried to think of if he needed to say something else, gave one more nod and led the way out of the room at a fast clip, Grif close behind him.

"You're getting better at that," Grif noted after a moment.

Simmons shot him a glare over his shoulder as his face heated. "Shut up," he said.

"No, no, I mean it. You didn't make a complete jackass out of yourself this time," Grif said. "I mean, it was still embarrassing as hell to watch, but one day at a time, buddy."

"Shut. Up."

"Hey, I was always worried you'd die before you managed to talk normally to a girl, but at this rate you'll get to it just after you're too old to get your dick up! I'm proud of you."

"Shut _up_."

"And using your position of power in a show of petty favoritism? Girls just eat that up."

"I said shut up!

"You should never be ashamed of progress, Simmons."

"I hate you."

He turned down the hallway and headed for the main entrance when he realized Grif had stopped at the intersection. He faced his partner, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Grif, what are you doing? We've got to go!" he said.

"Yeah, so why aren't you heading for the garage? I'm not fucking walking," Grif said.

Simmons sighed in exasperation. "It'll take us longer to drive there than to walk!" he said.

"Yeah, but we'll be walking, and fuck that. If shit's going to go to hell, I want to be as rested as possible for when we have to start running for our lives," Grif said. He turned and headed towards the garage, calling back to Simmons, "Besides, it's hot as balls out there. You can walk if you want, I'm going to drive like God intended."

That was another very good point. Simmons paused, mulling it over, then hurried after Grif. "Hey, wait up!"

After commandeering a jeep the two began the slow crawl towards Central Command. According to Sarge, the city had always been busy with reconstruction and fortifications, but now with the addition of a second army and the preparations for an inevitable attack it was practically alive. The population had almost tripled since the end of the civil war, and now those people swarmed the streets, ensuring Grif and Simmons' car never moved faster than five miles per hour.

"So what do you think they're calling us in for?" Grif asked as he braked to allow a troop to jog across the road.

"How should I know?" Simmons said.

"Well, what does Murphy say?"

Simmons rolled his eyes, watching the last of the troop finish crossing. "What's the worst thing you can think of?" he said as the jeep pulled forward.

Grif hummed in thought. "Charon has managed to clone an army of you. The levels of nerdiness will rise to lethal levels and there wouldn't be an unkissed ass in the entire galaxy," he said.

"Then it'll be worse than that," Simmons said in a sour voice. "Also: suck my balls."

CenCom was a massive, ugly building that squatted in the center of Armonia. Years of conflict had forced the construct to evolve from a typical government structure to a damage-pocked monstrosity, studded with half-finished repairs and bulwarks. What once might have been a charming forecourt filled with grass, trees, and fountains was now a dreary, barren killing ground.

Sarge was waiting for them outside the front door as they searched for a place to park. The flood of bodies going in and coming out of the building eddied around him to avoid bothering him — Sarge's reputation was well-known and well-earned.

Guilty panic skittered through Simmons' belly, and he hopped out before the jeep had fully stopped to hurry and present himself before his superior.

"Simmons! Good hustle. Donut is scouting inside to make sure this isn't some kind of dirty Blue trap! Need you and Grif to run back up when we advance. And by 'back up' I mean 'meat shields.' And by 'you and Grif' I mean 'Grif.' Need you behind Grif to make sure there aren't not any friendly fire 'accidents'," Sarge said.

"Yes, sir!" Simmons said, saluting. He hesitated, then continued, "But, sir, why would this be a Blue trap? Weren't the generals the ones to call us here?"

Sarge hefted his shotgun to rest it on his shoulder. "And who told you that, Simmons?" he said coyly.

"Uh… Jensen, sir."

"And who told _her_ that?"

"I… don't know," Simmons admitted.

"So you don't know it wasn't some Blue trying to lead us into an ambush!" Sarge said.

"Aren't we fighting pirates now?" Grif asked, ambling forward until he was standing besides Simmons.

"Grif! What took you so long?! Missed the entire battle plan!" Sarge snapped.

"I was literally right behind him. It couldn't have been that complicated," Grif said.

"Every second we're out here jawin' over things we've already said is another second for the Blues to fortify their position! You've jeopardized our entire mission!"

"But we're fighting the pirates."

"For now. But just because we have a new enemy doesn't mean the Blues are no longer our enemy! We must remain constantly vigilant! It would be the perfect opportunity for the Blues to take advantage of our preoccupation and strike!"

"Then they'd be down a squad when they went up against the Chairman. Wouldn't that be a disadvantage for them?"

"You think Blues are smart enough to think that far ahead? They're incapable of thinking beyond their own narrow-minded bloodlust! We should take them out first before they have the chance to do it to us."

Grif shook his head in disgust and said, "Tell you what, sir. It's hot out here and there's air conditioning in there, so I'll take point," he said as he brushed past Sarge. "If I die, you'll be right _and_ I'll be dead. Win, win. Great plan, Sarge."

Simmons and Sarge watched in silence as he walked up to the double doors and disappeared inside the building.

"Simmons?" Sarge said once the fat man was gone.

"Yes, sir?"

"I hate that man."

"Yes, sir. Me, too, sir."

Sarge sighed. "Come on," he grumbled as he moved to follow Grif, "Maybe it really will be a Blue trap and we'll find him splattered all over the halls."

"There's always hope, Sarge," Simmons said.

* * *

_Red vs Blue is property of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC. Halo is property of Microsoft, Bungie, and 343 Industries._

_ A thousand hugs for my beta, Aryashi._


	3. Why Are They Here?

A lifetime ago Washington had known a war room very much like this one. Now as then the front wall was taken up entirely by monitors, information writhing across the screens in response to changing variables. The holotank in the center of the room was dark as it awaited the generals to arrive and begin the briefing. All he needed was the pervasive hum of V4/L-DFR engines and it would be easy to pretend he was back aboard the Mother of Invention. Hell, Carolina was even in her customary spot right next to the oblong tank, leaning on the edge as she waited for the meeting to begin.

As many similarities as there were, it was impossible to believe the memories were anything but that. South wasn't pacing in the back of the room bitching about some imagined slight while North tried halfheartedly to placate her. Wyoming and Maine weren't lurking well away from the everyone else while CT prowled the edges of the group. York wasn't hovering by Carolina's shoulder trying to tease her into breaking her professional veneer.

Instead there was half a squad of simulation troopers clustered around the refreshment table at the back of the room. Tucker, Donut and Caboose were almost in Pointless Conversation Formation Quebec — wait, no, Grif entered and made a beeline for the table as he pulled off his helmet. That shifted the group to Bickering Formation Foxtrot as he and Tucker began to argue over the last eclair.

The contrasts between his past and present teams were glaring.

Wash let out a soft breath as he indulged in the sweet ache of nostalgia. More than his teammates, he sometimes missed the man he'd been back then. Bright and fresh and working with people who cared for him as a younger, dimmer brother, alternating between teasing and nurturing with maddening fickleness. A man who had no idea what betrayal felt like, who had never killed in cold blood and could still believe he was a good person. A man who —

"_**CHAAAAARRRGE!**_" Sarge hollered as he kicked the door open, firing his shotgun at the first cerulean object he saw. Simmons came in screaming behind him, pointing his weapon but having the good sense not to fire.

"What the _HELL?!_" Carolina shouted, furious but fortunately well out of the shotgun's range. No one else in the room even looked up.

A man who had never had to interrupt his brooding internal monologue to scream at another man, "God damn it, what have I told you about launching a preemptive counterattack?!"

Sarge and Simmons stopped and exchanged chagrined looks. "Not while there's a war going on," they said in unison, lowering their weapons and hanging their heads.

"That's right," Wash said, crossing his arms in front of him. "And _why_ don't we preemptively counterattack when there's a war going on?"

"Because it's a distraction from the actual enemy," Sarge recited in a halfhearted mutter as he scuffed his boots on the floor. He perked up. "But Donut — "

It was literally like dealing with children. "Ah, ah!" Wash said, annoyed to find himself waggling a finger at someone almost twice his age and half his sanity. "No excuses. Now apologize to Carolina."

You would have thought he'd suggested cannibalism the way Sarge recoiled. "Say what now?" he asked incredulously.

Wash gestured to Carolina. "You shot at her when she didn't have her helmet on. She's not even _on_ the Blue Team. You owe her an apology," he said sternly.

Sarge thought a moment, working the situation through his own twisted logic. After a moment he snapped, "Simmons! Apologize."

There wasn't a second of hesitation. "We sincerely regret any damage or emotional distress our valiant offense may have — "

"Not Simmons, Sarge," Wash said, "You."

The two team leaders stared each other down. Carolina crossed her arms in front of her, pose relaxed as she watched the scene play out. Simmons fidgeted next to Sarge, adjusting his grip on his weapon.

Wash had to admit he was uncertain if he could come out on top in a contest of wills — the man had cracked jokes with Maine's hand around his neck. Fortunately, Wash wasn't afraid to play dirty.

"You shot at an innocent girl, Sarge," he said. He ignored Carolina slowly turning to stare at him; he didn't need to see her face to know there would be retribution.

It did the trick, however. Grumbling curses under his breath, Sarge stumped forward until he was standing in front of Carolina, drawing her attention away from Wash. It was the bare essentials of an apology. While "sorry" did not make an appearance among the mumbled words, "you look like a dirty Blue but I guess I don't hate you" meandered onto the scene. Wash bit down on a sigh. It wasn't worth it to push the issue. As long as Carolina accepted it, he didn't care.

She watched Sarge with a wry smile, never moving or reacting to his words and forcing him to continue talking to stave off an awkward silence. Wash was rather surprised at how well she'd adapted to dealing with the sim troops; the Carolina he'd known in Freelancer would be stepping over Sarge's corpse to chase after Simmons. The Carolina in front of him was being playful and toying with the Red leader.

He wasn't the only one who'd changed, Wash thought as he suppressed a smile.

"Alright, Sarge. Apology accepted," Carolina said finally, her voice thick with humor. Sarge sagged with relief.

"There. Don't you feel better?" Wash said.

"It's not right!" Sarge complained, storing his shotgun on a magclip at the back of his armor. "How's a man s'posed to stay sharp if he's not allowed to hone his skills against the flint of his mortal enemy? Strengthen his mettle in the fiery forge of battle! Bevel his edge against the anvil of his opponents' defenses! Wrap his foe's wooden grip with his leathery woah hang on that one got away from me."

A perky male voice chimed in from the back of the room. "Hey, Sarge! Are you talking about — "

"No, Donut!" the four of them said in unison.

Like most everything, this failed to dampen Donut's spirits. "Sure, Sarge," he called brightly, "but if you want to continue 'not talking' about it, I know where you can find a lot of information about leather and wood!"

Sarge's only response was an indecipherable mutter as he went to investigate the refreshment table. Simmons magclipped his weapon and trotted after him, saying, "I think your edge is still excellently beveled, sir!"

Wash shook his head in disgust. This was his life now, and he was not nearly as depressed by that fact as he should be.

"When did you get so good at handling people?" Carolina asked with a small grin.

"I learned the hard way that if you try and stop crazy you're just going to lose _your_ mind, too," he spat, "The best you can do is channel it in another direction and ignore as much as you can."

Carolina twisted to stare at Sarge's retreating back. "How did that shotgun not hit me, though? Is it loaded with blanks?" she asked.

He shook his head again, feeling a headache taking shape. "No; the truth is way more idiotic. He figured out a way to supercharge his shotgun, so now it's incredibly deadly — but only if you're standing less than three feet away," he explained. He shrugged in response to Carolina's incredulous stare. "That's not even his worst idea — remind me to tell you about the EMP gun. Like I said, I ignore as much as I can. Any idea what this meeting's about?"

Carolina hummed a negative, shaking off her stunned disbelief. "Only thing they told me was that they needed Epsilon's help for something," she said. "He's been in their system all day doing who knows what." She shrugged. "Hopefully calling us here means he was successful."

"He was."

They all turned as Kimball and Doyle walked into the room, helmets off and faces grim. There was no preamble as they went straight for the holotank. Wash winced; that wasn't a good sign.

Kimball pressed a data crystal chip into a receptacle on the machine. A diminutive figure shimmered into being in the center of the tank. "Alright, gather 'round, jackasses, and prepare to be amazed!" Epsilon crowed.

"Not sure that's how you start a staff meeting, Epsilon," Carolina chided warmly as everyone moved closer.

The AI shrugged. "Hey, I just spent the past eighteen-point-six hours developing an encryption tunneling protocol using a TLS to insert an LSP into Charon's LAN TCP/IP — "

"Now I know my ABC'S — "

" — Shut up, Caboose," Epsilon said without heat, then continued as if there had been no interruption, "Into the TCP/IP to duplicate all incoming and outgoing transmissions to our servers for decryption. It wasn't exactly putting your ear to a glass on the wall; sue me for wanting a little recognition."

"Showoff," Carolina teased.

"Good to see being a computer's brought down your ego, dude," Tucker jeered, "Maybe if you spout enough bullshit nerd stuff everyone will forget you can't use a fucking sniper rifle."

"Bite me."

"Epsilon has been invaluable in our efforts to gather information," Doyle said, a smile widening under his beak of a nose. "It has been an absolute pleasure to work with so dedicated and effective a soldier, however transparent."

Wash frowned slightly at Doyle as Epsilon preened. The leaders of the New Federation army had been working hard to try and heal the devastation caused by the civil war as fast as possible to prepare for the conflict with Charon. Kimball seemed fine, but the strain was starting to show on Doyle. The bags under his black eyes and his normally coiffed hair hanging lank were testament to the long hours he'd been working. His skin, normally a rich brown acorn color, was comparatively pale with exhaustion. Still, he seemed in good cheer as he rubbed his hands together and leaned towards the tank. "Epsilon, if you would be so kind as to begin the presentation, please?" he said.

"Fine, I guess. Not like I worked my ass off or anything," Epsilon grated. The overhead lights dimmed and surface of the holotank was instantly alive with a topographic display of the Armonia and the surrounding area. "Yeah, so thanks to some _brilliant_ but _unappreciated_ hard work — "

Kimball's voice was not amused. "Epsilon."

" — we now have an ear in Charon's ground network. Now, we can't yet access their TDRS — "

"W, X, Y and Z — "

" — Shut up, Caboose. Quiet Game Time. Anyway, no satellites, no interstellar communication, no ratting out what that scumbag Chairman is up to or asking for help with the blockade."

"So all that work with nothing to show for it. Great meeting, everyone!" Grif quipped.

Against her copper skin Kimball's tawny eyes looked almost preturnatural in the holotank's glow as she leaned forward. "Not 'nothing,' Captain Grif," she said, "We intercepted and decrypted a communication to their nearest station. Epsilon?"

The map zoomed out to highlight a spot about twenty miles from Armonia. "Now, they used the new IWPA3, but I've already figured out that an adjusted Morelli/Castaway attack will decipher that one easily," Epsilon said in a grandiose manner, strutting in a small circle. "I mean, props to them for using their own private security protocol, but come on, it was so obvious they used CCMP to encrypt their keys they may as well have handed it to me on a platter."

"_Epsilon._"

He threw up his hands with a frustrated growl. "Fine, okay! Here's the stupid message."

A facsimile of a waveform grid sprang up, a cursor sliding across the peaks and valleys as the audio played.

_"Outpost Two-Seven, this is Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four, over."_

A chill speared down Wash's spine at the familiar voice. His jaw clenched as remembered anger stirred within him, bringing to mind memories of the radio jammer station. He had known Locus would show up again, but it had been something that remained in the future — something that he would always have time to deal with later. Now… he forced his revulsion to the side as the message continued.

_"Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four, this is Outpost Two-Seven reading you five. Go ahead, over."_

_"Outpost Two-Seven, contact has been made with CSO 'Glorious Revelation.' Standby for incoming Type-Two-Five Spirit at your location tomorrow, callsign 'Manumitter's Arrival,' confirm, over."_

Wash crossed his arms, settling his weight on one leg. Elites? Here?

_"Type-Two-Five Spirit 'Manumitter's Arrival' incoming tomorrow, copy. What are our orders, over?"_

_"Hold position and await further instruction. Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four out."_

The waveform blipped out of existence as if it had never been. Wash's frown deepened. "Why are the Elites landing on Chorus?" he asked.

Kimball's smile held no trace of warmth. "Why, indeed," she said as she leaned on her palms on the holotank. Her tone took on the quality of someone very deliberately not implicating anyone else in the room. "Some may disagree, but this message means we can no longer sit back and wait for Charon to make the first move. We may not know what Elites have planned or what Charon's interest in them is, but it is vital we keep them away from each other. We're overwhelmed as it is; the only thing keeping them from wiping us off the map is that they're waiting for something. We can't risk these Elites being used against us, so we're taking preventative measures."

They all jumped as Sarge let out a joyous shout. "Great merciful Mars, finally some good old-fashioned violence!" he crowed.

Doyle's lips twitched as if he wanted to frown. "While I do admit this information is somewhat alarming," he started, and Wash could hear his tone sharpen to a spearpoint thrust at Kimball's heart, "what some may fail to realize is that this also represents an opportunity to secure communication lines beyond Chorus' stellar field; an opportunity that may be jeopardized by rash action. If we ally with these Elites _without_ provoking Charon, we can utilize their supercarrier to bypass Charon's blockade and radio for help from the UNSC while they remain oblivious.

"Attacking will only alert Charon that we have intercepted their message, resulting not only in a militaristic retaliation that we are not ready for but also adapting their encryption protocol. So 'violence' should be our last recourse."

Sarge wilted, cursing under his breath.

"_HA!_" Grif whooped, "Murphy'd!"

"That's not how it works, dumbass," Simmons said.

Doyle's brow furrowed in confusion. "What — "

"Don't," Wash cut in. "Trust me. One thing I've learned, if you weren't there for the original dumb conversation, just let it go. Asking about it only starts up another dumb conversation."

"You should write a book," Carolina said.

Wash scrunched up his face in an insincere smile. "Funny," he said.

"If we can get back to business," Kimball said, "While General Doyle makes an _excellent_ point," her sarcasm had the weight of a hundred arguments behind it, "We don't have the luxury of being discreet. That outpost needs to be ours before the Elites arrive."

"Son of a _bitch_," Grif snarled as Sarge cheered again.

"Told you," Simmons said.

"Carolina has the most experience in this kind of thing, so she'll be leading the takeover operation. As for the rest of you, you've all been selected to participate in this mission since your records show prior experience in dealing with the aliens in... _various_ ways." Wash stifled a flash of guilt at the memory of a pile of Elite corpses in the sand.

"Donut never met the aliens," Simmons pointed out.

"Yuh-huh!" Donut said, "Back at Blood Gulch! There was the baby and the big one!"

"I won the Quiet Game!" Caboose announced, grinning as he added with pride, "I always win the Quiet Game."

"That's great, buddy. You're the champion. Time for Round Two!" Epsilon said.

The Reds hadn't paused in their discussion. "Dude, you had a Pelican drop on you before you saw the baby and you got knocked the fuck out before they got in the ship," Grif said.

"But I was in the area!" Donut huffed.

"And that's more experience than anyone else here," Kimball said.

Epsilon turned to face her. "Wow. It's that bad, huh?" he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes. It's that bad," she said. "Chorus was the last planet colonized before the war, and we're so far out of the way that we never saw any combat — these will be the first Elites to ever land here."

"Can we stop calling them 'Elites'?" Tucker asked in a strained voice.

"Would you prefer 'baby daddies'?" Grif said coyly.

Tucker gave him an ugly scowl. "Look, I can't really explain it, but they don't like being called 'Elites.' Something about the importance of names or some shit. If we're gonna be trying to get these guys to join our side or whatever, we gotta call 'em what they call themselves: Sangheili."

The group exchanged glances then turned as one to stare at him. Tucker's face flushed darker than normal under their scrutiny. "Hey, I'm just trying to not piss off the giant aliens with a supercarrier overhead, okay? You want an alliance or not?" he snapped.

"Better listen to our expert," Epsilon said with a sly laugh, "He's had closer encounters than anybody."

"Fuck you you little — "

"We will certainly take Captain Tucker's suggestions to heart," Doyle said. "We may not have had contact with the Eli — with the 'sang-hee-lee,' but the UNSC had extensive records on them that remained within our archives when we lost contact. Our information may be a trifle out of date, but we at least know the political situation has the potential to be extremely volatile."

Kimball picked up the conversation. "Towards the end of the war, a new religious figure appeared among the Sangheili," she said, the new word rolling off her tongue easily. "Around the same time it was discovered that the Halo installations wouldn't begin their 'Great Journey' but instead would wipe out all organic life in the universe. The combination were major factors in the Great Schism. The UNSC has since learned a great deal about the installations, but no one knows much about this new leader."

The entire Blood Gulch crew had gone suspiciously quiet. Wash cleared his throat to help cover the sudden lack of stupid comments.

"So what's the plan?" he asked.

"As I said, Carolina, you'll be running the military op," Kimball said, "Eliminate Charon's forces and take control of the outpost. We'll remove a threat, increase the size of our controlled territory, and snatch the Sangheili out from under the Chairman in one fell swoop.

"There's a cave network just outside the perimeter you can use as a forward operating base. You want to get in quiet. Outpost Twenty-Seven isn't that large, so no need for a big group. You're each to pick two members of your squad to bring along with you — and, yes, the New/Fed Protocol is in effect."

Wash stifled an irritated sigh. He could understand the theory behind forcibly intermingling squads to ensure no claims of favoritism. In practice, however, it was a cumbersome policy that in no way stopped the squabbling — the soldiers just found new things to bitch about.

"Once the outpost is secured and the Sangheili arrive, Tucker, you'll assume control. You have the most ambassadorial experience of everyone and it will be your responsibility to convince them to help us. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Carolina said immediately, with Tucker a second behind her with much less enthusiasm. Wash glanced at him, a ribbon of concern threading through him at Tucker's carefully neutral face.

Kimball nodded, bringing his attention back to her. "Assemble your teams at the motorpool at zero four hundred hours. That should give you enough time to get to Outpost Twenty-Seven and take your positions while it's still dark."

Something didn't sit right with Wash. "We've been trying to break through the Charon blockade for months," he said, "Why are they letting an alien transport just waltz right through their lines?"

Kimball's mirthless smile looked predatory in the low light. "That," she said, "is a very good question."

"Another good question," Doyle said, looking down at the tile, "What is buckshot doing on the floor?"


	4. Hurry Up and Wait

The two guards in the security room were not prepared for an attack. They lounged in their chairs, relaxing as they anticipated getting relieved from watch within the hour. The conversation was quiet and listless, their minds undoubtedly more on their beds than what was being said.

Neither of them noticed the way the light bent around two figures slipping wraithlike into the room. In fact, they had no idea they weren't alone until hands gripped their crowns and chins, and before they could so much as squeak the two figures jerked. After a pair of soggy crunches the guards slid bonelessly from their chairs.

Carolina stepped over the corpses as the two members of her squad shed their camouflage. Billings and Davies each gave her a curt nod, then wordlessly moved out into the hallway to take their next positions. Carolina couldn't stop a small swell of pride; both women had worked hard to get onto Cyan Team, and on their first infiltration were performing perfectly despite being from different armies.

Carolina made damn sure her training regimen was all about teamwork.

She swept her eyes over the bank of monitors showing the sleeping outpost. The layout was small and simple: tucked into a shallow basin between the caves and a narrow plateau, most of the facilities were underground. Only two buildings were on the surface, separated by a land bridge that arched high enough to block their view of each other. A scattering of patrols made their rounds as everyone else slept, but at this hour few were alert to the possibility of danger. She would have loved to just strafe the place with an air strike, but the New Federation didn't have enough aircraft to risk unless absolutely necessary. Besides, they needed the base still standing to hold up their ruse with the Sangheili.

Epsilon's voice chimed in her thoughts.

_-Still undetected. Nice one, sis._

"Thanks. All squads accounted for?" she asked as she turned her attention to the control panel.

_-Red, Green, and Lightish-Red Teams are waiting in the caves; Maroon and Orange Teams are in their Warthogs engines hot. Just waiting on Blue and Gray._

"And they all know what to do?"

_-... Well, they know what they're_ supposed _to do. Most of them. There's even a pretty good chance some of them will actually do it._

Reaching up to the back of her neck, she paused with her finger on the dcc-eject button. She glanced behind her to check that her squad was out of range, then cut her external comm just in case.

"What are our odds, Epsilon?" she asked.

_-... Really?_

"I'm hoping it'll make me feel better about this."

_-It won't._

She couldn't help a grim smile. "That bad, huh?" she said.

_-Not _bad_, but the odds are incalculable. Too many variables because, let's be honest, not even _they_ have any fucking idea what they're gonna do next. But that's why they work._

"Because they have no idea what they're doing?"

_-Because they're unquantifiable. You can't direct them; you just unleash them and hope for the best. And the enemy can't defend against something they can't predict. I mean, hey, it's worked so far... this week. Besides, we're already here; we can't really turn around and go home._

A suspicion drew Carolina's brows together. "You're being awfully relaxed about this," she said, "Why?"

She could feel Epsilon's guilty hesitation as if it were her own. _-Uh, I trust them?_

"You left a backup of yourself back at base, didn't you?"

_-Hey, their shtick may work, but it's had collateral damage in the past. You can't blame me for being cautious._

"Your Delta is showing," she murmured. She took a deep breath and shook off her unease. "Alright, here goes nothing," she said and ejected his chip. Instantly her mind felt empty and uncomfortable, like wearing armor way too large for her. She inserted Epsilon into the control desk. Almost a whole ten seconds went by before his digital body flared to life on the tiny holotank.

"Right, security systems disabled, doors overridden, communications locked — I am completely in control of the base," he said. "Now we just have to take out the trash."

"That was so lame," Carolina said, rolling her eyes.

Epsilon have her a dirty look. "Hey, you got anything better? Huh? Didn't think so. So if you're done critiquing, let's get the goddamn show on the road," he snapped.

She scanned the monitors again. On one screen she saw Billings and Davies down the hall, waiting on either side of the barracks door. On another was the garage containing the motor pool. After watching for several minutes without seeing any movement, she keyed her mic.

"Wash. Status?"

_"Finishing up now; all but one vehicle has been disabled. No one's leaving this base with these."_

"Good."

_"__I would like to take this time to_ thank_ you for giving my squad a stealth-intensive assignment and then pairing us with Caboose's team. Really appreciate it."_

Carolina grinned. "Well, Sarge works better in the vanguard and you needed someone with mechanical experience. And bitch all you want, but how effective has Caboose been at sabotaging the vehicles?" she asked.

_"... Alright, I'll give you that. Just about done; awaiting your signal."_

"Roger," Carolina said, then turned off her mic and made one last scan of the screens. She clenched her jaw as she looked at the monitor showing the barracks interior. She was consigning the men and women sleeping there to an ignoble death, not even giving them the chance to defend themselves. It was necessary to keep her people safe, but that didn't stop a small twinge of guilt.

"Hit it," Carolina said, her eyes locked on the screen.

Every speaker on base blasted the clear bugle notes of reveille, the piercing noise jarring after the silence. As Carolina watched on the monitors the soldiers stirred, slowly bringing themselves to wakefulness. Outside, the patrols scrambled to defend themselves as the New Fed teams swarmed out of the caves in the north.

In the hall, Billings and Davies jerked open the barracks door just long enough to sling a nondescript satchel into the center of the room, then slammed it back shut. The more alert of the Charon soldiers had only a second to wonder.

A muted boom rattled the compound as the screen showing the interior barracks flared white then faded to snow. Carolina let out a breath as her helmet's air filters struggled to scrub out the stench of smoke and burning flesh filling the air. It would have been kinder to kill them in their sleep, but without something to keep the soldiers outside busy they would have converged on this position and overrun her squad.

_Better them than us._

"Alright, I've done all I can for now. Pull me," Epsilon said.

Caroline ejected his chip and slammed it home in the neural interface slot at the back of her neck. The AI's return felt like a freezing mist sliding over her brain followed by a small jab of pain, then they were once again connected.

_-Time to kick some ass._

"Just stop — it's painful how much of a dork you are," Carolina said.

_-Again with the criticism! You're talking a lot of shit for someone who hasn't even come up with a single one liner._

"I don't need to talk about kicking ass," Carolina said as she headed out into the hall, her squad falling into step behind her, "I just do it."

_-... Okay, yeah, I'm starting to see where you're coming from with the "so lame it hurts" thing._

"Shut up."

The predawn darkness did little to hide the chaos topside as Carolina exited the facility. Rifle reports peppered the air, cutting through the yells and screams. A trio of Warthogs roamed the perimeter (one trailing soft notes of norteño behind it), the M46 LAAGs on the back seemingly aflame with continuous muzzle flashes as Charon soldiers were mowed down. The pirates fought in pockets of twos and threes, desperately trying to regroup. The New Feds hunted them down savagely, eager to vent their rage.

She keyed her mic and selected all frequencies. "Barracks clear. How we looking?"

_"Gray Team, motorpool secure."_

_"Blue Team, motorpool secure... again. Some more. Yes."_

_"North squads — take that, dirtbag! And that! You want some, too?! Got plenty for ya! — are in control of the situation!"_

Grif's voice could barely be heard over the cacophony of the Warthog's engine, turret, and accordion music blasting over the radio._ "Hey, some assholes are shooting at us with goddamn rocket launchers on the east side! Can somebody fucking do something about that?!"_

Carolina turned and nodded at her team. They saluted and started at a run towards the second building. "I've got my team on the way, Grif. Keep dodging."

A massive explosion boomed to the west, lighting the area for a few seconds as fire belched into the sky. A worrying amount of gunfire followed.

Wash's voice burst from her headset, shouting to be heard over the chaos in the background.

_"Shit! They threw a grenade — blew up the back of the motorpool! I've got ten — "_ a three-round burst,_ " — _nine_ bogies blocking our only way out! They've got us pinned!"_

"On my way," Carolina said, turning and activating her speed amp.

Her vision went bleary as she began to move faster than her brain could process what her eyes were seeing. Enhanced by the AI, there was no delay between thought and movement. She was almost a passenger in her body as she ran; Epsilon bridged the neural lag between the information received by her retinas and making the necessary course corrections, compiling it so quickly she had no idea there were any obstacles until she had already passed them. At this speed even brushing against a building would mean a broken bone, but she trusted Epsilon to guide her safely.

He slowed her as she neared her destination, letting her see the scene being illuminated by the fire. She ducked behind the edge of a building and peered around it to avoid drawing attention to herself. Thick, greasy smoke poured out of the garage, its back end engulfed with flames. Outside the front, a cluster of Charon soldiers were crouched behind a makeshift barricade of metal crates and stacks of tires. They were completely focused on the motorpool as they fired into the burning building, ignorant of their exposed flank.

_-Damn, they destroyed their own Warthogs? Didn't expect that._

Caroline shrugged. _They know they've lost, so now they just want to take out as many of us as they can. This is a pretty good plan — they're safe behind cover, and our guys either let the fire kill them or step out and get shot._

_-That's cold._

_That's what I'd do._

Her mind flashed through tactics in the space of a heartbeat; there were too many to take out quickly at long range and they were too spread out for a grenade.

_-Looks like you're gonna have to go in. Calculating strategy now._

Carolina used the opportunity to radio her teams inside. "Stay down; anyone who shoots me is getting shot back twice," she growled.

_"Roger that, we'll — yes, Caboose, I _know_ that's Carolina! How have you not figured out radio calls by now?! Damn it… just keep your head down, okay, buddy?!"_ Wash interrupted himself with a fit of coughing. _"Clark, sit on him if you have to! Yeah, Carolina, we'll stay low. Hurry."_

_-Alright, solution plotted. Let's go._

She charged forward. Again the world blurred, though not as much as before — Epsilon kept her at exactly the right speed to give her maximum advantage but minimal risk of self-injury. Now that she could watch herself move, it seemed to her amplified senses like she was running underwater when in reality she was moving twice as fast as a normal human.

Her HUD painted each opponent with a red outline, highlighting specific weaknesses. She only had to look at a target to find her boot or the butt of her gun there, her arms moving automatically to dispatch an incapacitated soldier with a quick burst of fire from her rifle.

Three pirates were down before the rest noticed. They turned — slowly, so slowly — and opened fire.

Epsilon calculated the trajectory of each bullet and shifted her to the safest location. Carolina hurled herself into her opponents, striking and firing and dodging and ducking almost on instinct alone. Blood and worse splattered her armor as she whirled through the soldiers, killing them with a ruthless efficiency. Epsilon bolstered her defense, becoming another pair of eyes and setting her to block or evade incoming attacks. No movement was wasted; each kick turned her to fire at an enemy behind her, each dodge put her in a position to strike at an opening.

Caught by surprise and having no defense against an AI-enhanced ex-Freelancer, the pirates didn't stand a chance. No more than thirty seconds passed from her first shot to the last, and she now stood surrounded only by Charon corpses. "It's clear! Move!" she called over the radio.

Almost instantly six figures appeared, backlit by flames as they scrambled to safety. One limped so heavily they had to be half-dragged by two others, and Carolina felt a chill as they neared and she spotted the familiar gray armor — dented, rent, and bloody.

She ran over and helped Caboose and Smith ease Wash into a sitting position on one of the tire stacks. Scorch marks and jagged abrasions covered one side of his armor, but there were only a few places where the titanium alloy had been compromised. One such place was where a shard of metal had pierced straight through his leg, its end gleaming wetly in the firelight. The New Feds not supporting Wash doubled over or sprawled on the ground, coughing and gasping for air.

Carolina glanced around to make sure their position was safe enough tend to the wounded and let them recover.

_Epsilon?_

_-No hostiles in the area. You're clear for now._

She knelt and inspected Wash's leg. The biofoam injectors had already sealed the wound around the jagged shard; there was very little else she could do until they secured the outpost. "Report," Carolina snapped as she stood.

"I'm fine; it looks worse than it is," Wash panted, trying to sound casual through his pain. "Superficial damage."

"You've got a chunk of metal in you, Wash."

"... Okay, except for that. I'll be fine, really. I've still got — " Carolina ignored the tiny tug at her heart as Wash bit off his sentence; she knew the name he'd been about to say. There was an awkward pause, then he finished dully, " — still got the healing unit."

"What happened?" she demanded.

Caboose bounced up and down, unable to contain his eagerness to answer. "THAT WAS VERY FUN! AND EXCITING! AND NOT AT ALL SCARY!" he shouted in his strange, halting cadence. "FIRST we got to play with the AUTOMOBILES! And maybe one or two got _accidentally_ broken BUT I DIDN'T GET YELLED AT! THEN somebody threw a BALL and I wanted to get it for _Freckles_ but he wouldn't let me!"

"That was a grenade, Captain Caboose," Freckles interjected. Carolina gave a small shake of her head; she doubted she would ever get used to Caboose's talking gun babysitter.

"THEN there was a REALLY BIG EXPLOSION and it got _really_ hot and people were FIRING AT US and then YOU CAME and took out all the _bad people_ that were _being mean!_ THEN we came out HERE and you asked us what happened! And I said, 'THAT WAS VERY FUN! AND EXCITING! AND — '"

"What happened to Wash?" Carolina interrupted.

"Cars don't like me," Wash grunted, the words sounding like they were pushed through clenched teeth.

"The grenade hit the Warthog Captain Washington was standing next to, ma'am," one of the other soldiers said, staggering to her feet — the name "Parker" glowed helpfully on Carolina's HUD. "And thank you — for coming for us, ma'am." She looked around at the carnage the former freelancer had left in her wake. "Damn, you fucked them up," she added.

_Some things never change,_ Carolina mused with a smile. It was then she noticed that the air was almost completely free of gunfire. She sobered and checked in on the other squads. "Motorpool secure, area's quiet. How are we doing out there?"

_"Cleanin' up the last of 'em now."_ A lone shotgun blast punctuated Sarge's report._ "Think we're good here."_

"Casualties?"

_"Nah. Some scrapes and bruises but nothin' that can't be sucked up."_

"Good. Simmons, head to the security room and radio Armonia. Tell them the outpost is secure and we need a medevac for Wash — bad leg wound, condition is stable but he's gonna need some TLC. Radio passcode is India, Delta, one, zero, Tango," Carolina said. She barely heard Simmons' affirmation as she sent Epsilon a fondly exasperated, _Really?_

_-Hey, I needed something they'd be able to get. It seemed fitting._

She shook her head again. "The rest of you, get patched up and get to work cleaning," she said. She glanced at the blazing motorpool next to her. "We've got a lot to do and quickly — this place needs to be presentable for our guests and we don't know when they're arriving. Let's hustle, people."

She turned off her radio, hesitated, turned it back on and said in her most threatening growl, "And Orange Team, don't make me come find you."


	5. Honk, Honk, Blargh

This was bullshit.

Tucker kicked a rock with more force than necessary, sending it skittering down the path ahead of him. Things had been cool at first — they got to kick ass and do something useful by taking over the outpost. Wash getting hurt sucked, yeah, but the medevac had picked him up hours ago. He was probably chilling in Dr. Grey's office right now, _not_ hitting on her even though Tucker kept telling him to. Dude kept trying to play it like they just enjoyed talking or whatever, but Tucker knew when two people were into each other.

As for those who remained behind at the outpost, their work had just begun. Cleaning up the carnage sucked. There was a fuck ton of burnt shit that had to be scrubbed clean, broken junk to be trashed, and he didn't care if Carolina really _did_ shoot him like she'd threatened, he was never hauling another corpse again. He didn't think he'd ever get the smell out of his nose.

Even though that had taken for-fucking-ever, they'd still gotten done before the transport arrived. So for the past several hours they'd had nothing to do but dick around until something happened. He's used the time to try to plan out what he was going to say to the Sangheili, but every time he did he felt weird, and the longer he had nothing to do but think the weirder he felt so he just decided to wing it.

Still, a nameless unease roiled through him as he paced the perimeter of the base. It was a fucking stupid because he shouldn't be nervous — he _wasn't_ nervous; he wasn't. He'd done shit like this before; he was a fucking _specialist_ at this. Okay, he hadn't been embroiled in a huge conspiracy at the time, and there wasn't the possibility that the Sangheili were involved with the enemy or that a supercarrier overhead would glass the planet if he fucked up, killing everyone he was trying to protect and all his friends —

He gave a frustrated snarl as he realized he was doing it again, his heart beating faster and his breath quickening. He shook his head and told his body to quit being a bitch, but it ignored him.

It was bullshit.

He scowled. Personal issues were lame, and he wasn't fucking lame. So he ignored his growing restlessness as best he could as he searched for a distraction. With Wash gone and Carolina and Epsilon busy in the security room waiting for word from the transport, his options for diversion were limited. Fortunately his orange-armored target was just up ahead. Grif stood staring over the edge of the landbridge, looking down towards where the vehicles were parked.

"Hey, man," Tucker said as he neared, "Whatcha looking at?"

"Simmons has been trying to park that Warthog for almost ten minutes now," Grif said, his voice oddly monotonous. Tucker followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was Simmons, struggling to parallel park between two other Warthogs by scooting back and forth and inching into the space millimeters at a time. His and Grif's squads stood nearby and tried giving advice, but their claims were contradictory and confusing and often said at the same time as they tried to shout over one another.

"Wow, really? That far in only ten minutes?" Tucker asked.

Grif shrugged. "He's starting to show progress," he said, his voice still lacking inflection.

Tucker looked at him. "You okay? You sound weird," he said.

"Huh? Oh, probably because I'm asleep," Grif said, never looking away from Simmons' struggles.

Tucker lifted an eyebrow. With his helmet on, there was no way to tell if Grif was joking or not. Then again, weirder things had happened. "But you're standing here. Talking to me," he pointed out.

"Yeah. Learned how to do this years ago — I can literally hold bullshit conversations in my sleep. I barely listen anyway, so nobody notices. _Great_ way to keep up your sleep schedule," Grif explained.

The man never ceased to amaze. Tucker stared at him, not sure whether to be awed or disgusted. "How do you do it?" he asked.

"You start by living in a boring fucking canyon with a kissass and a goddamn lunatic for a couple years," Grif said. "Throw in a Spanish-speaking robot nobody can fucking understand and you kinda just stop caring what anybody has to say. Replying becomes automatic, and then you, too, can take naps while talking to boring people."

"Fuck you, I'm not boring," Tucker snapped.

"I'm not responsible for anything I say; I'm unconscious. If it just so happens to be true, well, that's a coincidence."

Despite himself, Tucker couldn't help a grin. "You really got it all figured out, don't you, dude?" he asked.

"You know, a lot of people think being lazy is just lying around avoiding responsibility, but there's actually a lot of hard work and dedication involved," Grif said. He tilted his head, still watching Simmons. "Bet you ten bucks he never gets it."

"Will you even remember if you win when you wake up?" Tucker asked.

"Honestly, I've never had anyone say anything worth remembering, so I really don't know," Grif admitted.

Tucker looked down at Simmons. He was still fussing with the Warthog's position, but he had mostly managed to get the vehicle in the space provided and was inching his way to victory. Tucker's odds were pretty good, especially if Grif wouldn't remember the outcome anyway.

He grinned. "Make it twenty and you're on," he said, offering his hand.

Grif wordlessly shook it. "Hey, Simmons!" he called down as he let go, "You're still crooked!"

"Oh, you cheating motherfucker," Tucker snarled as Simmons began cursing, pulling out of the space to begin anew. A chorus of frustrated groans from his squad mingled with the mocking laughter from Grif's.

"Hard work and dedication," Grif repeated.

"Are you even really unconscious?"

"Totally. There's no way I'm waking up after only sixteen hours of sleep."

Tucker stared incredulously. "Dude, you _drove_ here. There was a fucking _firefight_," he said.

Grif shrugged again. "Your point?" he asked.

"Jesus Christ, dude," Tucker said with dawning horror, "Remind me to never get in a car with you again."

"Whatever. That's twenty bucks, sucker."

"No way, he can still make it!" Tucker protested. Grif slowly turned to face him, and after a second or two Tucker sighed in defeat. "I'll pay you when we get back to base," he growled.

"Sir! Captain Tucker — Sir!"

Tucker's mood worsened at the familiar voice. He ignored it, but Grif turned to watch as the speaker approached. "Palomo? You brought Palomo?" he asked, looking at Tucker, "Don't you hate that guy?"

Tucker ground his teeth and didn't answer. Much to his irritation, Palomo was more than happy to do it for him. "Oh, yeah, totally, but Captain Tucker didn't have any other choice! Word got around about his little 'incident' at the FAC Outpost Twenty-two, and only one dude from the Feds wanted to volunteer for his squad!" he said cheerfully, oblivious to Tucker's rising anger. He lowered his voice to a conspiratory murmur. "And I think they _forced_ that guy to do it — he's always glaring at me and he only ever hangs out with Feds off duty and he won't even talk to us!"

"That's because he's _mute_, you fucking idiot!" Tucker snapped.

Palomo twitched, then let out a long "oh" of understanding. "So _that's_ why they installed an ASL translator in my VISR!" he said.

Outrage whirled Tucker around. "It's been three fucking months, and you're only just now realizing that?!" he shouted. He paused as a thought occurred to him. "And they gave it to _you?!_ I'm the fucking captain! Why didn't they give it to _me?!_"

Palomo shrank back, holding his rifle in front of him like a shield. "Uh, probably because your armor doesn't support VISR? I mean, we could always trade helmets — except that would look, like, really stupid. I guess we could trade armor. But you're bigger than me — I don't know if you're built or just fat, but no way would you fit in my armor," he said.

All Tucker could do was stare as he tried to figure out which part he wanted to get angry with first. The problem was they were all really stupid and he needed to yell about them but the words just clogged in his throat.

He was starting to see why Church was pissed all the time.

After a few seconds of silence Grif let out a disbelieving laugh. "Damn, man," he said to Palomo, "I mean, I've been hanging around incompetent assholes for so long I'm kind of a connoisseur of jackasses, but this... this is magical. You're like a fuck up olympian."

"Uh, yeah... yeah," Palomo said, hanging his head. "I mean, the only reason I'm still on his squad is because, like, _nobody_ else wants to be anywhere near him. The Feds 'cuz of all the dudes he killed before you guys figured out the war was a ruse, and the News because he got Rogers and Cunningham killed. I mean, I told them that it was, like, _one_ time and almost half a year ago, but —"

"Palomo!" Tucker snarled as an old guilt bit at him, "Shut! The fuck! _Up!_"

Grif grunted. "Gold medal, kid," he said, "Gold medal."

Palomo was spared from trying to recover by Carolina's voice snapping over the radio._ "Alright, people, we've got contact. The Sangheili just radioed for approach. Tucker, it's your time to shine."_

All the moisture in Tucker's mouth evaporated. He tried to swallow, but just to try and get some spit going in a really dry climate; he was definitely _not_ gulping. He rolled his shoulders and gave his head a quick shake then hit the radio. "Yeah, on my way," he said.

He started towards the landing pad. Much to his annoyance Palomo fell into step behind him, Grif trailing along after. "Wow, aliens! Real live aliens! This is gonna be so cool!" the private said, bouncing up and down as he walked, "I've always wanted to see one; like, that's why I joined up in the first place! Man, this is gonna be awesome!"

"Hey, Palomo."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you remember when I told you to shut the fuck up?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's a standing order. Shut the fuck up."

"Besides, dude, they're really not that great," Grif said. "The last time we met some we kept them busy by having Epsilon read printer instructions to them."

Despite Tucker's admonition Palomo replied. "Uh... but isn't their technology, like, way more advanced than ours?" he asked.

"Yeah, they're really weird. All I know is, if they ask you to go on a quest or something, say no. Or at least bring protection," Grif said.

Palomo's confused "What?" was overridden by Tucker snapping, "Fuck you, dude."

"Hey: unconscious."

"You're about to be _beaten_ unconscious," Tucker threatened.

The landing pad was an ostentatious name for what was basically a clearing between the base and the caves they'd used to get here. Most of their company had arrived ahead of them and were standing in clumps talking, looking kind of like groupies awaiting the arrival of the band.

Carolina stood by herself off to one side, watching the sky with a puzzled frown on her face. She noticed Tucker and immediately moved to greet him. "You're sure we don't need some kind of plan?" she asked. She paused, then gave her head a little shake like she was shooing a bug.

Tucker shrugged, trying to ignore his increasing queasiness. What the fuck was wrong with him? "You don't really need a plan for this stuff," he said. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him. "These guys are gonna come out trying to intimidate us; they're predators, so they wanna be dominant. Keep your helmets on, visors polarized and don't back down, but whatever you do, _don't_ draw your weapons unless they attack — to these guys, if you show it you're gonna use it, and that pisses them off. Let me do the talking, follow my lead and we'll be cool."

"If you say so," Carolina said, donning her helmet. She shook her head again.

"What's up with you?" Tucker asked.

Carolina looked at him as Simmons and the remainder of Orange Team pulled up in the Warthogs. "Epsilon's been laughing like hell since we got the approach request, and he's only gotten worse since you and Grif showed up. He won't explain why," she said.

Tucker didn't have time to wonder as the first heavy hum of engines reached them. The entire group fell silent and straightened to attention, hands tightening on their weapons. Tucker didn't need to see their faces to know they were nervous, and against the Sangheili that was just asking for trouble.

"Hey, guys, relax," he called, casually slinging his rifle onto his mag clip. As the sound of the approaching Spirit grew he strutted forward so everyone could see him. "They're big, they're ugly, and they smell, but I'm kind of a big deal to them thanks to this key/sword thing. We're not gonna have any problems."

_"That made him laugh harder,"_ Carolina murmured on a private frequency as the Spirit crested the top of the caves.

The transport circled once, taking a quick reconnaissance of the area. Shaped like a tuning fork, an antigrav energy field between the two prongs fluctuated wildly to keep the craft level as it made a tight yaw turn to face the human soldiers. The heavy plasma cannon hanging like a bee's stinger underneath swept over the assembled humans before levelling for some reason at Grif.

Tucker took a deep breath as the Spirit lowered to the ground. The prickling spider-webby feel of the nearing antigrav field was nothing compared to the way his heart was pounding in his chest and his guts felt like someone was grabbing them and twisting. He grit his teeth and did his best to ignore the feeling, pulling his sword from its magclip and holding it unpowered in his hand. He settled his weight on one leg in a nonthreatening but unimpressed posture.

The Spirit settled in a low hover a few feet off the ground. The transport bay doors swung open, and the Sangheili swarmed out, weapons up as they trooped into formation but not making any threatening moves. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple squad members twitch, but he held free his hand out palm down and they obediently stilled.

Tucker scanned the alien's helmets and breathed a soft curse. The lowest ranking warriors there were the Honor Guard Ultras; the same type of soldiers that had defended the Prophets when they had been part of the Covenant. What the fuck had the New Federation gotten themselves into?

One of the Sangheili stepped forward, arrogantly standing his full eight-foot height and towering over the humans. The deep purple of his armor and the two spike-like protrusions on his helmet marked him a Field Marshal almost as much as the Class-2 Fuel Rod cannon he carried. _Who speaks here?_ he demanded in his native language, the honks and blarghs at odds with the imperious tone.

Tucker swaggered to meet him, projecting as much cockiness as he was capable of producing as he ignited his sword, keeping it low at his side. He stopped out of range of his weapon but under the alien's field of vision. The marshal's lower mandibles twitched as he was forced to tilt his head to keep Tucker in sight, golden eyes blazing in anger.

"I do," Tucker said as they locked gazes.

The marshal clicked his mandibles speculatively as he took in Tucker's stance, position, and sword, his slitted pupils rounding slightly at the last. He resumed meeting Tucker's stare. _Is the area secure, keyholder?_ he asked, sounding a hair less antagonistic.

"Yeah, it's safe," Tucker answered.

The marshal nodded and twitched his free hand in signal. The honor guard straightened as one, executing an about face and presenting their weapons. Tucker kept up the eye contact for a moment longer, then deliberately turned to look past the marshal in a show of dismissal.

Two figures in religious Ascetic armor exited the troop bays, a stranger in brown and a familiar face in green. He had only a second of alarmed realization before the Sangheili leader stepped out of the ship.

Tucker's heart stopped dead in his chest and his throat snapped shut. His vision tunneled; he no longer saw his teammates or the honor guard or the field marshal.

The only thing that registered was the young Sangheili, walking with a stately air as his magnificent blue-and-aqua robes swirled around him. He was the smallest one there by far, his head barely making it to Tucker's waist (though the ornate headdress added at least a foot). He came to a halt mere inches from Tucker, looking up without a word. His brown, round-pupiled eyes met Tucker's as if the polarized glass wasn't even there.

There was a long silence.

Tucker cleared his throat uncomfortably. He needed to say something, if only to break the growing tension. His voice barely made it out of his mouth, and when it did it was a cracked, feeble thing:

"Hey, Junior."


	6. Wait, What?

_"This is bullshit."_

"That is _not_ a sitrep," Locus growled.

_"Well, sorry to disappoint, but that's the biggest fact I've got for you: this is bullshit. This is one of the _worst_ assignments ever, in fact. It's fucking torture. Come on, you can tell me: this is Control punishing me, isn't it?"_

Locus ground his teeth together, forcing himself to remain focused on the sniper rifle's zoom screen on his HUD. He reminded himself that he was a soldier; a professional, and Felix was a mission asset. Professionals maintained mission assets at all costs until that mission was complete, and they did not give in to personal motivations to cause grievous harm to those assets — no matter how aggravating they might be.

He had been hiding in the hills above the outpost since yesterday evening, monitoring the raid and the Elite's arrival. Below him, the scene was anticlimactic. After the initial meeting, the alien leader and Tucker had gotten into a heated conversation; their respective officers had ushered them into one of the buildings and out of sight of the rank and file — and Locus. It was an unforeseen reaction; previous reports suggested the two were close. Curious.

_"Do you know how hard it is for me not to kill him right now? Seriously, one little M41 round and a whole lot of problems are just gooey paste on the walls. I could just — "_

"Do _not_ jeopardize this mission," Locus snarled.

_"Oh, relax. I'm not gonna do anything, as _ridiculously_ tempting as it is. But seriously, though, it would be stupid easy. Just a quick trigger pull, or even just a single frag, and..."_

Locus bit down on a sigh as Felix made an explosion noise. "Remember your purpose," he grated. He hesitated before continuing, "You're certain this channel is clear?"

_"C'mon. Give me _some_ credit. You really think I'd be talking this much if I wasn't?"_

Locus didn't reply.

_"Okay, you know what? That hurts, man. That really hurts. You really think I'd fuck up like that twice? 'Fool me once,' after all._

_"Yes, this channel is clear. Their little digitized pet took the bait. As far as it's concerned, it's got access to all our channels, but it's only monitoring high frequency and above. As long as we stick to ULF it shouldn't notice us. If it does, well… I think our little surprise will take care of it."_

"Your equipment is operational, then?"

_"'Operational'? Dude, you wouldn't _believe_ the shit I can do now. I'm like a fucking _god_. Why the hell didn't we pass these out earlier? I can't _wait_ to kick this baby up to full throttle!"_

Once again Locus wondered at Control's wisdom in selecting Felix for this mission. "Focus," he said, "You would do well to remember what happened the last time you got distracted."

_"Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over all the hypocrisy."_

Locus' brow lowered. "Say again?" he said.

_"I watched the playback feed. I know exactly how long you spent trying to monologue at that Freelancer — three minutes and two seconds, by the way."_

Chagrin bit hard as Locus conceded Felix's point. He had been weak, giving in to the urge again and again to try and understand Agent Washington. To figure out how — no, _why. Why_ such an effective soldier had turned his back on his true nature and allowed himself to grow _soft_. And Locus' last indulgence had distracted him long enough for Felix to fall right into the sim trooper's trap.

He shook the past away and recentered himself in the present. He would follow his own advice; there was still a mission to complete.

"Are you able to continue monitoring the alien's conversation?" he asked.

_"Yeah, that's what I thought."_

"Felix…!"

_"Yes, I'm patched in — discreetly, before you ask."_

"Are they discussing anything of value to report?" Locus asked.

_"How should I know? One's talking in a stream of idiotic, nonsense syllables and the other's speaking an alien language."_

Locus gave a menacing growl.

"Fine. _From what I can tell, we are audience to what has to be the most disappointing and potentially explosive reunion this side of the New Mombassa Bossanova Bosses bringing back MacDougal for the finals."_

Locus waited in silence.

_"Okay, once again, it disgusts me just how lame you are. That was hilarious, and it went right over your head. Take five minutes off being a goddamn killjoy and watch some television, for the love of God."_

"Felix!"

_"Alright! Jeez. No, I'm not getting anything worth reporting from my position. You are getting just as much intel out of this useless conversation as I am. Can we shoot people now?"_

"Negative. Our mission is reconnaissance only."

_"You have _got_ to be kidding me."_

"Stand. By."

_"I bet if _Agent Washington_ were here we wouldn't be 'standing by'."_

Locus scowled as Felix's mutter transmitted loud and clear, but did not gratify him with a response. As much as Locus strove for strict professionalism, he had to admit a certain sense of regret that the former Freelancer was no longer present, given that this mission was specifically to gather intelligence.

His attention snapped back to reality as he saw movement in the group below. The aliens retreated to cluster around their ship while the Chorus soldiers began to meander towards the closest building and out of Locus' view.

"Report. What's happening?" he asked.

_"What?"_

"I repeat, what is happening?"

_"Didn't I just answer this, like, five minutes ago?"_

A muscle jerked in Locus' cheek as he clenched his jaw. "I lost visual of the Chorus soldiers. You are in an optimal position to report on the current circumstances, and I will not remain idle while the mission is in progress. Now, what. Is. Happening?" he growled through his teeth.

_"God, fine, whatever. From what I can tell, it's lunch time, so everyone's breaking for chow. And in a _direct contradiction_ to the normally _responsible_ and _productive_ management of their time, literally everyone is now just standing around talking. Really, I'm, I'm shocked. It's _so unusual_ for them, so I'm sure when you ask for another report here in thirty seconds, I'll have something different to tell you. Because they would _totally_ never just waste _an entire fucking day_ talking."_

What Locus wouldn't give for just one straight answer. He took a deep breath to solidify his hold on his patience before continuing. "What is the nature of the discussion?" he said.

_"You know, you are a huge pain in the ass sometimes."_

That surprised a derisive snort from Locus. He scowled, suddenly knowing exactly what Felix was doing.

_"That counts."_

"No it does not," he snapped, "Enough playing. Continue the mission."

_"Yeah, yeah, getting resituated now. And, just so you know, nobody likes a sore loser. That's totally a point for making you break face, and a bonus point for doing it during a mission."_

Locus once again changed the subject; it was the only defense. "I'm advancing to fulfill the secondary objective," he said.

_"Careful. Those split-jaws are no strangers to camo, and I'm not risking my position to come save you."_

"Your concern is noted," Locus said wryly. The world shimmered for a split second as Locus activated his camouflage.

His descent was a thing of minutes, and his infiltration of the camp took less time than that. He inwardly scoffed at just lax security; had this been an actual raided outpost the retaliatory offense would have barely broken a sweat retaking the base. The Chorus natives were still wary out of habit, but were focused more on each other than any outside threat — including the Elites.

As for the aliens themselves, they proved more of a challenge. The Honor Guard Ultras kept a loose perimeter around their craft, all facing outward and showing none of the negligence present in the humans.

Locus slowed to a near crawl; quick movement made it harder for the camouflage to cover him. At this pace only thermal imaging would betray him, and none of the guards were equipped for such detection.

Despite his surety, Locus fought the urge to hold his breath as he inched through the Elite line. Reaching the rank of Honor Guard meant that each of these warriors had killed hundreds, if not thousands of humans. Bristling with armor and weapons as they were, if he were discovered the ensuing battle would not be a long one.

He grimaced as the familiar leathery stench invaded his nose and ignited an old hate to simmer in his belly. Humanity had barely survived the war; it was only by luck both the Flood invasion and the Great Schism happened at the most opportune time to divert the Covenant's attention. He could still remember the way their roars seemed to drive straight into his stomach, more felt than heard, and could still recite the recipe for the concoction of basic camp cleaning solvents necessary to get their purple blood off his armor. Deeply ingrained training urged him to attack, to kill before they discovered him.

But he was a professional, and he had a mission.

He exhaled silently as he cleared the guards and headed into the Spirit. The transport was a no-nonsense craft that had a singular purpose and stuck to it. Designed solely for carrying a large payload of troops, the only seat in the entire craft was the pilot's. The bays were empty and had only a narrow walkway while the doors were open.

Locus slipped up the ramp, his boots making no noise on the strange metal. As he neared the cockpit he heard the rumble of an Elite talking, and he paused to listen. Whatever it was saying, it was clearly annoyed, and whatever annoyed a pilot could be useful.

... Hhnnk honk blargh honk, blarrgh bllaarrgh honkk hhnk!

"JUST LET ME TALK TO DOG!"

Locus twitched in shock. A human woman? On an Elite ship? But why? He crept closer, putting his back to the wall and peering cautiously into the cockpit. Much to his further surprise, the human — clad in yellow MJOLNIR armor reminiscent of the sim troopers — was in the pilot's seat, arguing with the Elite standing over her.

"Like, what's your problem, anyway?! We're freaking parked, so, like, why can't I go outside?!" she was saying.

The Elite let out a long breath, swiping a four-fingered hand down its face in a universal sign of frustration. Blarghh blargggh honkk blargh honk, blargh blargh honk blarrgh bllargh hhonk! it growled.

"I just wanna go outside and see my brother, geez! Like, why are you freaking out?" the woman said.

Locus lifted an eyebrow. Brother? He straightened and scoured his memory for the files they had on the simulation troopers and could only recall one of them having a sister.

Honk honk hhonnk blargh honk, honnk honkk blarggh blaargh!

"Yeah? Well, like, I already told you these guys are cool! I mean, like, most of them. Kinda. One's old and that's gross and one's, like, a really huge nerd that says stuff like 'old school'. But, like, Dex wouldn't hang out with _bad_ guys!"

Bllarrghh honnnk hnnk blrgh honk blargh!

"This is so lame! He's, like, right there! I could go out and, like, say hi or whatever, and if something really does go down then, like, we can just jump right back in the ship and take off! C'mon, I haven't seen him in, like, forever!"

A satisfied smile briefly curled Locus' lips. So the Elites were wary and had brought along a potential hostage in case the situation went south. This could be a definite advantage, should the other humans be made aware of it. He peered around the corner again to make sure the two were still distracted by their argument, triple-checked that his external comms were shut off, and risked a transmission.

"There is a human woman board," Locus said in a low voice. It was unnecessary, he knew: he could have shouted and no sound would escape his sealed armor, but this close to the enemy he didn't want to take any chances.

_"What?"_

"There is a human woman on board," Locus repeated. He looked into the cockpit again. "This could be useful. Unknown subject appears to be related to Dexter Grif. The aliens are holding her on board against her will; it is unlikely any outside know she's here."

_"So you're thinking hostage?"_

"Affirmative."

There was a small pause, then Felix began to chuckle. _"Finally, the batshit crazy luck these idiots have is working in our favor. How do you want to play this?"_

"We — "

An angry alien voice burst out of the speaker in the cockpit. Both occupants fell silent, listening intently.

_"Uh, Locus, you gotta move."_

Locus scowled, remembering he had yet to complete his goal. He'd gotten distracted and had been neglecting his purpose. _Again._ "Negative. Secondary objective has not been accomplished," he said. He took a deep breath and crouched, then eased his way into the increasingly cramped cockpit. Both the present Elite and the human were focused on the message. Though most of it was incomprehensible to him, one word stuck out: "Armonia."

_"Fuck the secondary objective! That's why it's _secondary!_ The meeting just broke — they're onto us. You've got maybe twenty seconds until Baby's First Hinge-head and his entire entourage are back on that ship!"_

"Negative," Locus said again. Moving as quickly and as quietly as he could, he slipped a surveillance bug out of one of his ammo pouches and planted it on the underside of a panel, where it would be difficult for the casual observer to locate. It latched on with a barely audible click; he would have to wait until he was back at base to receive confirmation it was operational. He rose and —

"Woohoo!"

The woman's cheer sent his hand to his pistol, nearly drawing and firing on instinct. He held his breath and slowly turned, sure he had been discovered.

His hand dropped, forgotten, to his side.

The Elite was hunched over the console, replying to whomever had been transmitting. The woman was operating the controls, her hands moving with a confidence that suggested familiarity. "We get to go hang out at the city!" she was saying as the engines warmed to life, "I can see Dex there, right? 'Cuz if you guys tell me I gotta stay on the ship the whole time that's gonna be, like, super lame! Hey! We could find a rave! I would do these totally bitchin' ones back at Blood Gulch, and everyone came. One time, I made, like, ten bucks in one night!"

_"Locus! What the fuck are you doing?! Get out of there!"_

"The girl is the pilot," Locus said, his voice numb with shock.

_"Wait, what?"_

"The girl is not a hostage — she's the pilot!"

The implications of this were staggering — and not just for Charon's plans here on Chorus. Tucker and his renown within the Elite culture had always been just an anomaly; a fluke. But for a second, completely unknown human to be allowed to not only pilot an Elite ship, but pilot the ship of the highest religious figure the Elites had?

They needed more intel, and the bug he just planted had suddenly become the most valuable piece of equipment on the planet.

_"Look, that's cool, whatever. We'll talk about it later. Right now, you've got to — motherfucker!"_

The sound of many heavy boots charging up the ramp gave reason for Felix's curse. Locus froze as Elite voices began filling the ship, then flattened himself against the far wall of the cockpit, hand curling around his pistol's grip. There was very little chance he would make it out of here alive, but he would not go down easily.

An Ascetic in green armor stuck its head into the cockpit and barked something at the two within. Locus ground his teeth — he was close enough to breathe in the scent of clean feathers; unusual, for an Elite. His heart hammered in his chest and he forced his breathing to stay slow and even. If the Ascetic were to so much as twitch in his direction, those tusks would hit his helmet and expose him. Yet he dare not move, as even the slightest noise from his armor would have the same result.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be up in a second!" the woman said. She turned and glared at the Ascetic. "And tell Dog that if I don't get to see Dex when we land next time, I'm gonna — "

Yes, Kai, I am aware: you will "kick my ass." Worry not, you shall see your brother soon.

The high-pitched, almost squeaky voice broke into the cockpit accompanied by its robe-clad owner, the Elite Messiah himself: Jineewua ("Junior") Dar 'Tucker. He stopped in the center of the small room, his head tilting slightly as if listening to something. Mollified, the woman (Kai?) turned back to her console.

There was a moment where the only sound was "Kai" manning the controls. Then the youngling waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder, and the Ascetic retreated with a small nod and the other adult Elite close behind. Locus let out his breath; though by no means roomy the cockpit was much less crowded with only him and the youngling standing.

The floor lurched as the Spirit lifted off. Locus rode it easily, and much to his credit so did Jineewua.

"So, like, what was all that about? Did you get to see your dad?" Kai asked.

Yes, I did, Jineewua said, stepping up to stand next to her seat.

"So why are we leaving? Like, shouldn't we be having a party or something?"

It was suggested that we reconvene at an alternate location —

"Dog, what the fuck are you saying?"

Jineewua's lower mandibles spread in a grin. Dad said we should go to his place because apparently shit's fucked up and needs figuring out, he said.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, and Locus told himself it was his imagination that Jineewua was looking at him out of the corner of his eye. A lot needs figuring out, he said.

"Yeah, whatever, cool," Kai said. "As long as I get to hang out with Dex."

_"Locus! Come in. Spirit just took off; you'll be out of range soon. You still alive?"_

Locus sent a green affirmative light to Felix's HUD.

_"Jesus. The fuck were you thinking? Whatever; are we still a go?"_

He sent another green light.

_"... You sure?"_

Another green light.

_"Alright, you crazy bastard. I'll tell them to be gentle._

_"... Good luck."_

**Author's Note:** I am so very sorry for my extended absence; a whole fuckton of stuff happened in my life right at once and it took me a while to manage it all. Lost my job, started planning a wedding, getting ready to go to college... it's been a busy couple of months.

I can't promise I'll be able to post with any regularity, but I'll do the best I can. Just know that I won't abandon this; it might just take me a while to finish it.

As always, my sincerest gratitude to my beta, Aryashi.

Red vs Blue is property of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC. Halo is property of Microsoft, Bungie, and 343 Industries.


End file.
